Work Text:
Magic Hands
Evelyn had been looking for Cullen everywhere and had yet to find him. She’d started with his office (which was empty) before making rounds past the war room, the practice courts, the barracks, and now, ultimately, back to the battlements. It was very odd indeed. Resolving to leave him a note (though she’d have much rather seen him in person), she headed back towards his office.
“Hey Boss!” The Iron Bull’s voice was so loud the Inquisitor was quite sure she’d levitated. Evelyn pulled a face as she was hauled forcibly from her thoughts on where the Commander might be, glaring at her large friend. The Qunari grinned at her, closing the distance between them. “Hey, have you seen the ‘Vint around? He was supposed to help the Chargers with an exercise an hour ago and I can’t find him.” The big man scratched absently at the base of one his horns. “It’s...not like him not to show.” Trevelyan would have grinned and teased him over his thinly-veiled concern, were it not beginning to spread to her as well.
“Hmm. They’re not playing chess, I already checked the garden. Let me leave stop by Cullen’s desk and we’ll go hunting together?” Bull smiled and nodded, following her into the Commander’s domain.
At first glance the place was deserted, the desk half-hidden beneath piles of missives and maps of troop locations. Evelyn started across, tucking a wayward strand of auburn hair behind an earlobe as she looked for a scrap piece of parchment to use. Bull waited patiently near the doorway.
Quite suddenly a long, low groan of pain echoed down from the lofted part of the room. Too many months of battle and heightened senses took over; she’d barely made the ladder when she felt herself scooped bodily into the air, coming to rest on one of The Bull’s muscular shoulders. The Qunari was halfway up the ladder by the time the second cry reached their ears, this time a yelp that started off sharp, keening and shrill, and wound down into a hiss. It was absolutely Cullen.
“Ugh, that hurts,” the Commander moaned, voice oddly muffled.
“Yes yes,” a clipped, rich voice replied. “I warned you that it would. Now hold still. All my talent is wasted if you don’t allow me the proper execution.” Something--a bed?--creaked another pained sound rolled through the air, heavy in the stillness.
The Iron Bull froze three rungs from the top, looking up at Evelyn with the same look of quiet shock in his eye. Dorian? The two of them stayed silent as the Qunari resumed his ascent.
Many things became apparent when the Ben-Hassrath and the Inquisitor could see into the Commander’s bedroom. A many-buckled robe was draped casually across a chair, Cullen’s distinctive fur cloak hanging from the back of the same. Two pairs of boots--both armored, one spiked in Tevinter styling--sat side by side nearby, abandoned somewhat haphazardly in apparent haste. A peculiar scent hung in the air, a mix of soft, floral notes and the tang of ozone.
Across the loft and in the Commander’s bed, Dorian was sitting atop a shirtless Cullen, the mage dressed only in breeches and a thin white shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He was straddling the broader man; Cullen was face down, arms stretched out by his head and still moaning quietly. Sweat glistened on the mage’s forehead, a shimmering sheen that reflected the green light of magic, twining about his arms and hands. The Commander was drenched, making small sounds of duress as Dorian gathered more spirit magic into his palms and descended on the man under him again. Deft hands dug into the knots plaguing the muscle clusters in Cullen’s back and shoulders, massaging a thick Elfroot mixture into his skin until it absorbed, easing the pain the mage was inflicting with his ministrations.
“There, how does that feel?” Dorian questioned, hands climbing higher to ease the tension at the base of Cullen’s skull.
“Ugh, Dorian, that’s…” his voice died when the mage found a particularly nasty spot and shot healing into it, spreading a cool tingling through Cullen’s throbbing head, “--so much better, thank you.” A satisfied smirk found its way onto Dorian’s face, one the Commander could hear in his voice even as he himself let out a little murmur of pleasure, tension seeping away from a migraine that had lasted days, making sleep and food all but impossibilities.
“The nausea is less pervasive, I expect?” Cullen attempted to nod and Dorian hissed, holding his head still and pinching his shoulder ever-so-gently. “No moving!”
“Yes ser,” the Fereldan muttered, wistful sigh quashed by the pillow his face was smooshed into.
“...this is fucking hot,” The Iron Bull said suddenly; had he not gripped her legs, Evelyn would have fallen right off of him and split her skull on the floor below. Cullen’s top half shot up, his eyes wide and face immediately twisting into a grimace; Dorian started visibly as well, nearly bucked off by the Commander’s sudden change of position. The Tevinter mage sent a searing glare at the two of them on the ladder, placing a hand between Cullen’s shoulders and shoving him back down flat, earning a muffled sound of protest that he promptly ignored. The slightest hint of pink flushed the ‘Vint’s cheekbones.
“Honestly, do the two of you mind? I am trying to make certain the Commander of the Inquisition’s armies is able to function in top form and free of migraines.” He waved an elegant hand, shooing the Qunari and his human shoulder-passenger away and ignoring whatever said Commander was currently babbling about. “Do get lost.” The Iron Bull grinned hugely and started down the ladder. The Inquisitor, still in something of a daze, did not miss the wink of a long-lashed mage as she was lowered from view.
“That was...unexpected,” Evelyn muttered once the door to Cullen’s office was closed safely behind her. She looked up at The Bull, who was still smiling. He glanced down at her, some emotion on his face she could not quite read.
“That ‘Vint is just full of surprises.”
That much was certainly true.